


It’s Not The Destination, But The Journey (And How They Keep Pushing Forward)

by withlightning



Series: Journey 'verse [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Insanity, M/M, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withlightning/pseuds/withlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames never knows what to say when Arthur gets like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s Not The Destination, But The Journey (And How They Keep Pushing Forward)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a coda to my fic [It's Not The Destination, But The Journey (And How His Heart Keeps Beating On)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/156998). This is also from Eames' POV and is a moment of inertia some time after the original fic. I have plans to continue this 'verse at some point.
> 
> Beta by my partner in every crime, [Olgameisterfunk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/olgameisterfunk/pseuds/olgameisterfunk).

Eames never knows what to say when Arthur gets like this. He never knows what to say when Arthur gets paranoid, when Arthur obviously, heartbreakingly, sees things Eames cannot see, when he shies away from the walls and tiptoes on the floors, scratching the once-smooth skin of his arms and making badly-covered high-pitched sounds in the back of his throat – and Eames wishes, he wishes so much he could see the things Arthur sees, because maybe then he'd understand. Maybe then, he'd find the words.

Arthur paces; he paces in the living room from one wall to another – eleven steps – and back again (minus the last step on both ends because Arthur doesn't like walls), stopping once in a while to stare at the blinking light of the answering machine (Eames once unplugged the whole device in the hopes of making at least _something_ better, only to have Arthur break down and murmur "no-no-no-no" with round eyes until Eames plugged it back in) and when he finally sits down on the sofa, he tucks his legs under him and digs his fingers into his hip, gasping.

Eames' scar on his hip twinges in sympathy, the tissue pulling tight on the edges, and he gulps down a dollop of rough-edged emotion in his throat. His chest aches. "Arthur," he says calmly, and sitting down gingerly on the sofa, Eames is reminded by another time, another place where he took the first step to mend what was broken, irrevocably.

Arthur's hand is red, knuckles tinged with white as he presses harder. "We need to paint these walls again," Arthur says, his brows furrowed in what Eames suspects is concentration.

"Alright," Eames answers easily enough. "Not a problem. I can ask Yusuf to—"

"No!" Arthur's head snaps up. His eyes are wild.

Eames simply stares because it's all he can do. He swears he can hear something twisting and breaking in his chest. "Don't you like— Has something happened between you and him?"

Arthur licks his lips – a nervous tick – and glances down, gaze staying somewhere around Eames' throat. "I don't think— You don't see it, do you?"

And Eames, Eames shakes his head slowly. Says, "Tell me." Says again," Tell me, Arthur," and reaches out a hand. His fingers close in on Arthur's hand and he takes a hold of the dry digits, squeezing once.

Arthur makes a small sound and his face turns to something miserable, something so un-Arthur-like that Eames feels bad even for asking.

"I've tried," Arthur half-whispers.

"Then you tell me again. You tell me again and again until I see it," Eames says. "You'll keep telling me until I understand," and he imagines a hell upon earth, imagines faceless shapes whispering unkept promises, imagines fire roaring and never-ending toneless screams.

Arthur stays quiet and Eames comes closer, tucks Arthur against his side, lips touching the wild, overgrown strands of Arthur's hair. Eames breathes deeply and with every breath he pushes down the helplessness, pushes it down, buries it under the uncertainty and lost sense of security, leaving only hope brimming under his skin.

“I’m—“

“Don’t you say you’re sorry,” Eames says and kisses Arthur’s temple. He nuzzles his way closer, skin on skin, cheek against cheek. “I wouldn't change a thing, darling," he says gently in the shell of Arthur's ear. "Wouldn't change a thing."

Eames holds on tighter.


End file.
